Morphling
by Zara Green
Summary: Zara Green is a victim of sexual abuse, a morphling addict, and a Tribute in the Hunger Games. She's also pregnant, but no one else knows. The District reacts to illegal pregnancies with forced abortion. She is determined to keep her unborn baby alive
1. Chapter 1

**I am a huge fan of Susanne Collins. I loved The Underland chronicles before anyone ever heard of the Hunger Games. I've decided to write a fanfic for the Hunger Games to hone my writing skills and for my own enjoyment and hopefully yours. This is my first fanfic ever. The characters and their personal situations are mine, but the concept of the Hunger Games is, of course, Susan Collin's. Without the world that she built, that is so perfectly set up for new stories to be written in, and a perfect textbook for the genre, I could have never created this story.**

Morphling

Part 1: The Tributes

Chapter 1

I cannot will myself to get out of bed. My body aches from severe withdrawal symptoms that kept me awake the entire night. Through the barred window, sunbeams stream into the bedroom onto my exposed skin. The cold sweat covering my body glistens with refracted light. My mind is tormented with opposing thoughts. Part of me wants nothing more than to grab the syringe beside my bed. The other part of me, the real part of me, holds back the urge. I have to stop using morphling. I'm pregnant.

My thoughts revolve in a perfect circle. _I need morphling, but it will hurt my baby. I'm pregnant because I'm repeatedly raped. Morphling is the only thing that helps me cope. I need morphling, but it will hurt my baby._

I am unwillingly betrothed to a man named Monrad. During our arranged courting, I started using morphling. It kept me from going insane. Now it's making me insane. Even though I stopped using, since I realized I'm pregnant, I still hallucinate; a common side affect of the painkiller. One second everything is normal, and then objects appear as if they are painted; not just a different color, but not real anymore. A tree will transform into fluid brushstrokes. The ground will swirl with fluid, opaque complimentary colors. Thick flesh-toned oils will drip from a face made of canvas.

I have to get out of bed. But not to work at Syntec: Pharmaceutical and Medical supply, I am no longer their employee. When I became betrothed to Monrad, he forbade me to work. I don't know where he is now, probably passed out drunk somewhere. I have to get out of bed because today is the Reaping. Attendance is required. Monrad has to let me out today.

I would rather work in a factory for the rest of my life than be engaged to that pervert. If I were not pregnant, I would hope to be among the chosen at the Reaping. I would surely die and my pain would be over.

If I could run away, I would, but I'm locked in this house. If I somehow managed to get out, a 50-foot cement wall, with armed guards in watchtowers, surrounds District 6. The guards are called Peacekeepers. A more correct term for them is prison guards. My husband-to-be, Monrad, is a high-ranking Peacekeeper. He's also a past Victor of the Hunger Games. He doesn't patrol the District or even carry a weapon like most Peacekeepers. He sits on his fat ass all day doing paper work and telling everyone else what to do.

Arranged marriages are law in District 6, but they only pertain to government officials like Peacekeepers. People can marry anyone they like. However, one can do nothing when a peacekeeper wants a woman, even if she is already married. She must be at least 15 years old as a rule. I'm 16.

Every married couple, even those arranged, must apply to have children. One boy and one girl are allotted. Not every married couple is approved. Population quantity is strictly controlled in District 6. There are currently about 4500 people trapped here.

To have a child out of wedlock is punishable by death. An illegal pregnancy, if discovered by the government, results in forced abortion. The only exception is for Victors and their families. As long as I'm with Monrad, my baby will not be taken from me. This offers me little consolation. Nobody knows that I'm pregnant. I don't know how to tell Monrad. I'm scared of how he might react. Even though it is legally allowed, I'm sure that he doesn't want it.

Monrad chose me after his first three wives committed suicide. I had been living in the Syntec housing unit, only allowed to see my mother, father and younger brother on the weekends. Three months ago, four peacekeepers were waiting for me when I finished my Friday shift. They took me to Monrad's home in the Victor's Village and I haven't left since. I can't leave. I'm a prisoner here. My parents can do nothing. Neither can Lane.

Lane was my boyfriend, but I haven't seen him since Monrad took me. Lane and I were abstinent. We were waiting for marriage, but also scared of what would happen if I got pregnant. However, the extent of our relationship was secret. Courting, no matter how innocent, is illegal until the age of 18 with the exception of government arrangements.

I don't know a time when I didn't know Lane. We were in the same day-care when our parents were working. We went through school together and graduated when we were 12-years-old. That's when all children are placed in the workforce. They are sent to wherever work they are needed at the time. Lane and I were both sent to Syntec. We sat side-by-side, line inspecting and assembling various medical supplies. Our mother's also work for Syntec, but in a different wing, producing pharmaceuticals like morphling and other medicines. Both of our fathers work in the transport factory. One of these three options is where most children are sent to work for their entire remaining life. It's all line work no matter where they end up. The Capitol employs the supervisors. The specialized workers, like engineers and scientists, are permanently relocated from other districts; a select few are from District 6 if they show exceptional potential in school or at work, but most people don't get the chance to display talent.

School was mostly to get children used to waking up early, going somewhere they would rather not be, completing mindless tasks all day, then returning home with barely enough time to sleep and start over the next day. Behavior conditioning. Much of the time at school was spent on simple packing lines, placing medical supplies in small plastic bags to be shipped to the Capitol or assembling small transport parts; any task that would benefit from the efficiency of many small hands.

I was very fortunate to have Lane as a friend. No matter what we were doing, in school or work, we could make it enjoyable and make the time slip by just by talking. He could make me laugh at any time. Even if I was in an especially bad mood, it only took Lane a few words to make me smile.

For the first few weeks of my imprisonment, I fought Monrad. He beat me and forced me. I made my mind go numb. In between incidents, I clung on to the hope that I would break free somehow and see Lane again. With every passing day, I realize more what a foolish dream that is. I belong to Monrad. I turned to morphling. It's readily available in District 6, pharmaceuticals being one of the main industries. All I had to do was ask and Monrad acquired the drug for me. In his position, it was easy. He knows why I want it and is glad I'm finally submitting. My bruises from the beatings are still evident although they are subsiding now that I do not fight him anymore.

My mental anguish is worse than any of the beatings. I have to endure Monrad without the aid of the morphling now that I know I'm pregnant. Added to the withdrawal symptoms I do not know how much more pain I can take. I've found a way to take my mind to another place, to ignore what is happening to me. I have started thinking of Lane again to help cope, but it's a fantasy rather than a hopeful dream. A part of me still longs for him, but the other part of me, the real part of me, wonders why he would want me anymore.

I sit up and reach my toes. That causes my head to ache more than my body. I'm still trembling. If I don't do something to distract myself, I will give in to my addiction. The fact that I have not disposed of the syringe or the morphling scares me. It's like I know I'll fold eventually and will need it to be there. I swing my legs off the bed and put my head between my knees, trying to control the tremors. I was freezing a second ago, now I'm burning up. I walk to the bathroom and turn the shower to cold. As I stand under the frigid deluge, my mind is relieved of burdens for just a few seconds. The lock on the bedroom door unlatches. The urge to run to the morphling overtakes me.

I snatch the syringe off the bed stand. It's like someone else is controlling my body. I know it's just my own impulses, but I can't fight them anymore. With my free hand, I slap the inside of my other arm a few times to make the vein more prominent, easier to find with the needle.

"Zara, what are you doing?" says a familiar but unexpected voice.

My eyes search the door. I quickly throw down the syringe and cover myself with the bed sheets. It's my father.

"What, how?" I say.

"Monrad is dead."

It takes a few seconds for this to register. I put on my bathrobe that lay on the bed and I run to my father, embracing him. Neither of us says anything for a minute, moistening each other's shoulders with tears.

"We have to go now. There's a car waiting for us outside." My father says.

"Where are we going?"

"We have to leave the district with your mother and Kyle. There isn't much time."

"Where?"

"Away from here."

"How are we going to get out?"

"It's all arranged. Come now."

The keys jingle in my father's hand and I remember the lock turning.

"How did you get those? Did you…"

"I'll explain later, we have to go, now."

My father leads me downstairs by the hand and through the front door. At the end of the paved walkway, a four-passenger transport sits on the street. My mother and brother are sitting in the back seat. My mother, hysterical, gets out and runs to me.

"Janice, stay in the car. We have to go now."

Father grabs her arm and puts us both in the car. I'm in the front passenger seat, my mother returned to the back. My little brother is sobbing uncontrollably. Mother holds him in her arms and stares at me, tears streaming down her face.

"What happened? Did you kill him?" I say to my father.

I have never felt such freedom and such terror simultaneously.

Father glances at me, but says nothing as the transport speeds away.

"We're all going to be executed, " I say.

"The Gatekeeper will let us through, we made a deal."

"You made a deal?" I scream.

Another silent glance.

"You're going to get us all killed," I scream again, "What were you thinking?" I would not normally take this tone of voice with my father, but I'm not myself. The morphling withdrawal and the current situation are making me extremely irritable.

"I would have came sooner, but I had to make sure the plan would work. I gave almost everything we have in exchange for a way out of here. We're going to District 13."

"District 13 is destroyed," I say.

The silent glances are really adding to my upset.

"We can't go yet. I have to say goodbye to Lane."

"I'm sorry honey, but there isn't enough time. Things didn't work out exactly as I planned."

"What do you mean didn't work out?" I seriously contemplate jumping out of the moving transport.

"I didn't plan on," father glances at Kyle in the rear view mirror, "on Monrad's death."

This time I give the silent glare.

"He found out about my plan," father says.

"So you just killed him? I mean, I can't say I'll miss him, but now you're a murderer."

"It will be fine, we just need to get to District 13."

"Fine? What's there to get to? It's nothing but ruins."

District 13 was obliterated during the first uprising against the Capitol. Has my father gone insane? Maybe I'm hallucinating all this.

"I don't know for sure. Some say it's a refuge, that there are survivors rebuilding a free society; free from the Capitol."

I always knew that my father did not support the Capitol, not many people do. But I never thought he would take it to this extreme. I guess losing me was all he could take.

We approach the main gate out of District 6. A Peacekeeper walks up to the transport, looks at father and waves to a Peacekeeper in the control tower.

The gate slowly opens, wide double doors swinging outward.

The Peacekeepers wave us through.

As we begin to cross the threshold, a hovercraft materializes in front of us. I don't know if it's real. It looks like it's being painted in the air. Father stops the transport. Machinegun fire from the hovercraft takes out all the peacekeepers at the gate. Now I know it's real. Father throws the transport in reverse, but we only move a few feet before an electro-magnetic blast from the hovercraft shuts the car down. A dozen Capitol Guards, from the city that controls all 12 Districts, rappel from the hovercraft on thin cables like so many spiders. I can't even think about opening the doors of the transport to make a run for it before the Guards surround us.

They open the driver's door of the transport and take father out. He doesn't struggle. One last silent glance is his only goodbye, but I see the regret and apology in his eyes. A harness is quickly attached to father and he is hoisted into the hovercraft. Some of the Capitol Guards take the place of the District 6 Peacekeepers that were eliminated for treason. Others file into the District. My mother, my brother and I are escorted away from the gate and along the street. I hear distant gunfire. Surely it's the Capitol Guards eliminating anyone that was in on the rescue and escape attempt. Every second I'm convinced will be my last, but we arrive safely at our home.

I sit on the couch with my knees together. Hugging myself, bent forward, I try to control the tremors. My mother sits next to me and wraps a blanket and her arms around my shoulders. She weeps softly, but does not say a word. I haven't told her that I'm a morphling addict or why. She's knows why and can recognize the symptoms. Morphlings, the name given to those addicted to morphling, are common enough in District 6.

Under all the pain, I'm glad to be home, but something isn't right about being here. We tried to escape the district, all of us. Why did they only take father? Why did they let the rest of us come back to our home? The Guards left without saying a word once we were all in the house.

My brother locks himself in his room. I can hear him sobbing. He's been through more today than any 12-year-old boy should. If witnessing the murder of Monrad at the hands of our father, the failed escape attempt, father's arrest and our forced march home wasn't enough, today will be his first Reaping.

Kyle has been to the Reapings before, once for every year of his life. It is mandatory unless a mortal illness keeps you bedridden. But this is the first year he is eligible to be chosen as a tribute. To be one of the chosen is almost certain death. Even with the slim chance of being chosen, approximately 1 in 500 this year, every child fears the Reaping. Someone has to be chosen. Someone is always chosen.

"The Reaping is in twenty minutes," my mother says, her voice barely audible.

I don't want to go, all I want is morphling, but we all have to go. Imprisonment or execution is the only other option, usually the latter. Although I am happy to be free of Monrad, I am terrified for my baby. With Monrad dead, I am no longer exempt from the law. My baby will be taken from me as soon as the government realizes that I'm pregnant. I have to find a way out of District 6. I will raise my baby in the wilderness if I have to. Even though I don't know how much of a chance of success I have at that, it's a better option than staying here. Maybe If I escape I can make it to District 13. My father thinks it's safe there, or at least he was willing to risk everything to find out. I couldn't leave my mother and brother behind. We all have to go, but father is a prisoner, if he's even still alive. It seems hopeless. I start to think of Lane, but morphling soon consumes my thoughts.

The Reaping takes place in the town square. We arrive a few minutes before noon, starting time. A few stragglers are late, some escorted by Peacekeepers. The twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds gather in front of the stage constructed yearly for this occasion. Parents and those without children stand behind the group.

I'm near the middle of the group and I'm shaking so hard that I can barely stand. I'm sure people notice my discomfort but they can't be sure if it's caused by morphling or fear of the Reaping. My skin hasn't started to take on the tell tale signs of a morphling yet: yellow and saggy. I see people trembling almost as much as I am. I'm drenched in sweat and I feel like I'm going to freeze to death despite the heat of the day. Three chairs sit on the stage. Mayor Ford occupies the middle chair. To his left sits Eunice Adamant, the Capitol's escort. The third chair is empty. It's reserved for the last Victor, who can't occupy it, because he's dead.

The mayor stands and turns on the microphone. Feedback assaults the ears of everyone for a few seconds. He clears his voice and begins to speak of the history of Panem, the nation that encompasses the districts, headed by the Capitol. His speech is a tradition and is the same every year. He speaks briefly of the nuclear war that ended what was once known as North America, and how the remaining survivors united to build the nation of Panem. He goes on to relate the founding of the 13 districts and how they rebelled against the Capitol, biting the hand that fed them. He laughs at his own remark. He speaks of the Dark Days during the rebellion and the climax when the Capitol was forced to annihilate District 13. He concludes by describing the creation of the Hunger Games and why they were created: so we never forget who is in power and whom we owe our lives to.

After the Dark Days, the Treaty of Treason was created to give us new laws to ensure peace; laws that govern population control, food consumption, housing, employment and recreation. The Hunger Games is the only form of public sport in Panem. Each year, the Capitol chooses, by lottery, two contestants to participate in the Hunger Games from each of the 12 Districts: one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18. All 24 Tributes, as they are called, are taken to a vast arena in the wilderness. The object of the game: be the last one alive. Weapons of many types are provided to aid in the massacre. Wilderness survival supplies are also available. The winner and the winner's family live the rest of their lives in luxury. They are provided a home in the Victor's village of their district and extra food rations are allotted to all the citizens of the Victor's district for that year. With the laws governing food consumption, no one receives nearly enough to eat. Some districts are so stricken with hunger that dying of starvation is not uncommon.

The only obligation of the Victor is that he or she mentors all the future Tributes from his or her District until one of them becomes a Victor. This year and until District 6 turns out a Victor, the tributes will have to do without a mentor. Monrad was the only living District 6 Victor. Lack of a mentor usually makes it much more difficult for the Tributes to survive. The mentor can be of great help during training, but most importantly, the mentor is the Tribute's link to Sponsors. Gifts can be given, by Sponsors, to the Tributes during the Games to help them succeed, although the gifts are extremely expensive. The mentor must approve sponsorship.

The sickest thing about the Games is that they are televised. Viewing is mandatory for all citizens of Panem, even in the Capitol. The citizens of the Capitol _enjoy _watching the Games. It's the highlight of their year. Nobody is hungry in the Capitol nor do they perform hard manual labor. Their days are consumed by entertainment, fashion, rich food and excess of everything. It is customary for citizens of the Capitol to place bets on which Tribute will be the Victor.

My stomach turns and I wonder if it's from the withdrawal symptoms or thinking about the perversity in the Capitol. I wretch and much of it runs down the brown robe that I still wear. To me, the vomit looks like bright blue paint. It's in my hair and I feel it running down my neck. I wipe my face and the front of my robe with the blanket and turn the inside out, wrapping it tighter around myself. People close by give me a wider berth.

Eunice takes the microphone. She is wearing an elegant dress covered in thousands of diamonds. Jewelry dangles from nearly every part of her head. Her face must be pierced one hundred times. It's difficult to guess her age. Maybe 40. She introduces herself, speaking in a very serious and grave tone. It is very out of character for her. She is generally cheerful, catering to the audience in the Capitol. This event is televised. She speaks of the murder of Monrad. The crowd, quiet with fear until now, starts to stir. Uncomfortable chatter starts to spread. Not many people knew until now.

"Silence," Eunice screams.

The crowd obeys.

"This year the Tributes of District 6 will not have a mentor. As you know, this greatly reduces the Tributes chance for survival. I assure you that the perpetrator is punished accordingly."

My father is dead. He must have been executed. I knew this already, but hearing Eunice speak of it brings fresh tears. At least she doesn't mention my father's name.

The weather turns to rain. The only shelter from it is the canopy above the stage. Eunice continues with her traditional speech, much more light-hearted, as if she's already forgotten what she had just spoken of. It makes me feel more terror. Something is not right.

A hand touches my shoulder. I turn my head and look up. It's Lane. I'm paralyzed for a moment, and then Lane embraces me. I give in to intense sobbing and shivering, but I try to stay silent to not draw any more attention to myself. However, I am not the only person crying and being held for comfort. Many people are attempting to console one another. Lane kisses the top of my head, an act that could result in punishment if noticed. He holds me and says nothing. The rain soaks our clothes and hair as we embrace. I'm relieved from all burdens for just a few seconds.

Impulsively, because I can't contain the truth anymore, I look up at him and say, "I'm pregnant."

He understands how. He stays silent. He holds me tighter.

I vaguely hear Eunice announcing that the time for choosing Tributes has come. All I can think about is getting back home and figuring out what I'm going to do about everything, about my baby.

Eunice picks the names out of two bowls, one for the girl, one for the boy. She unfolds the little scraps of paper and reads them both.

"Oh my, what a coincidence. The Tributes for the 26th annual Hunger Games are: Zara and Kyle Green."

It's been rigged. It's obvious. Punishment for what my father did. I step back from Lane. His clothes look like they are thickly painted on his body and are starting to crack and peel off in chunks. Dread washes over me, then a strange calmness; at least I know my fate now. I turn and automatically walk towards the stage. My baby will die. Perhaps that is better. To bring a child into this world is cruel.

As I ascend the stairs leading to the stage, I hear a voice call out from the crowd.

"I volunteer as Tribute."

It is allowed.

Eunice smiles.

Lane walks up to the stage.

**Thank you for your inspiring and constructive comments.**

**Chapter 2 is finished and will be posted soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I want to scream at Lane in opposition, but it's either him or my brother who has to be Tribute. How could I choose? I know why Lane volunteered. He wants to protect me, but at least one of us will have to die. I feel horrible bringing Lane into this, but it may be the only hope for my baby.

"What a brave young man," says Eunice, "We've not had a volunteer from district 6 for quite some time."

I keep my eyes directly in front of my toes. Did the Game Makers know that Lane would volunteer? Do they know about our relationship? Am I not being punished only because of what my father did? Surely, Lane and I are both being punished for our secret relationship. No, there is no possible way they could have counted on Lane volunteering. They could have simply chosen him as the other Tribute if they wanted us both in the Games.

"State your name," says Eunice when Lane reaches the stage. She stands between us as we face the crowd.

"Lane Steele."

"May I ask? What prompted you to volunteer? Is the young man, Kyle, A friend of your sibling perhaps?

It's an obvious stretch. Most people wouldn't even volunteer for their own sibling. Past Games have proven that.

Lane looks at me. I know he would have volunteered no matter what boy was chosen. I'm ashamed. Lane will probably die for me in vain. How could I possibly become Victor? I think of my baby and how Lane may be my only chance. If I do become Victor, my baby will be safe. That's Law. I can't believe I am thinking so selfishly. How could that possibly work out anyway? I wouldn't kill Lane.

Lane has a younger sister, although she is not particularly close to Kyle. Eunice is trying to get the truth out of him without saying it herself: that he volunteered to protect me. Lane could simply agree that he volunteered on behalf of the friend of his sister, but he chooses a different lie, a more defiant lie.

"12-years-old is too young to be a Tribute. I couldn't stand to see another child slaughtered."

He doesn't want to expose our past relationship. If anyone shows more affection than friendship towards each other, they can be severely punished. Close relationships are strictly forbidden before the age of 18. It's part of the law of population control. He could attempt to pass it off as true loyalty to a friend, although that's a less common excuse for a volunteer than taking the place of a sibling. Loyalty only goes so far on Reaping day, but it's become more than that. I suspect the Game Makers want to use our relationship for drama in the Hunger Games, and Lane doesn't want to let them. It's not like they could punish us for our secret relationship anymore than they already are.

Working together side by side at Syntec is when our relationship truly became more than a friendship. We had a lot of time to talk, to really get to know each other, sitting side by side on an assembly line for most of the day. We shared everything with each other, but had to be very careful about what we said. We could both be executed if we were overheard talking negatively about the Capitol. Discussing the Capitol was something we did often. So people wouldn't understand what we were talking about we invented code words for the subject. The foundation of the code was derived from stories from our childhoods about farm animals.

In District 6, there are no animals. Everything inside the wall that surrounds the District is cement and tar pavement and cinder block buildings, except for a few small parks that are not much more than a couple benches under as many trees. Of course, there are birds and rats, mice and bats and other sort of vermin that get inside the wall, but there are no pets or livestock. Lane and I are intrigued by stories about another District that is said to have large expanses of land for grazing sheep and cattle, pigs and chickens. Although, other people say these stories are exaggerated and that the animals do not roam free as they once did in a time long before the Dark Days, even before the Panem. They say that the animals are packed by the thousands into factories with no more room than to stand in one place.

Lane and I choose to believe that somewhere in Panem there are still farms like there were in the old days. Farms that have a big red barn; animals roaming free, grazing on endless green pastures; beautiful dogs with long flowing hair that are trained to bring the animals back to the barn when they stray too far; kittens playing in the hay loft. Most of these fancies are rooted in the stories I read when I was a child.

Books are illegal in District 6, except schoolbooks and technical manuals relating to the professions. Some citizens have secretly written what they remember from stories that were passed down by memory from people who had read them. My mother wrote a few stories from memory and used them to help me learn how to read. The skill of reading is not taught in school. It's expected of parents to teach their children from standard issued lesson books. No one uses them because of the blatant Capitol propaganda in every lesson.

My favorite story is one my mother calls _Charlotte's Web_. She made sure that I never forgot that the original author's name is E.B. White, although she didn't know what the initials stood for. She said it was a shame that the original text had been lost, and that her version couldn't do it justice, but that the essence of the story belonged to him and that should never be forgotten.

I shared these stories with Lane and from them we contrived the code language that allowed us to talk about the capitol and the District officials without anyone knowing. We spent countless days creating metaphors to discuss what was going on in the government around us. We referred to Monrad as the Rooster. If I said, "The Rooster's been struttin' around the henhouse again," Lane knew I meant that Monrad was looking for another new wife amongst the young women of District 6. If Lane said, "The wolves got at another sheep," I knew that he meant another citizen was executed by Peacekeepers.

It might not be the most unbreakable code in the world, but it gave us a little more freedom of speech and kept us from being executed. Mostly, it's what we did for entertainment; not just to hide our conversations, but something we did to keep our minds off our grim existence.

I look at Lane and can't help but wonder if he's thinking of some metaphor for this situation, two pigs going to the slaughterhouse, most likely. Although Lane has no intention of letting me die. He's writing my name in gossamer one last time, a task that will take his last ounce of energy.

Lane is only 16 but he looks much more mature: Almost 6 feet tall, 160 pounds, prominent shoulders. His hairline is slightly receding above his temples. He could pass for 20 easily. His appearance gives weight to his bold statement about Kyle's age.

"Leave it to the Game Makers to decide who is too young or too old, but I admire your bravery," Eunice says with a smile. Her face flushes behind the mask of jewelry. The bright diamonds imbedded in and dangling from her face contrast with her reddening skin, making her anger even more obvious. I wonder if Eunice isn't referring to Lane's answer as brave.

When we were in school, the boys, except Lane, didn't treat me very nicely. I was shorter than most of the girls and I had extremely messy curly hair that stuck out in every direction. I wore thick, square, black-rimmed glasses that made my eyes look enormous. Consequently, I was the target of many rude comments and gestures. I was an extremely quite and passive child. I never reacted to any of the provocation, hoping that ignoring the antagonists would cause them to become bored and move on to something else. However, I realized that my complete lack of reaction amused them. They wanted to see how far they could push my patience: How many spitballs they could stick to my face before I threw something back, how many times they could call me "bug-eyes" before I shouted something in return. Lane always stood up to the bullies for me. That turned a lot of the teasing his way, but it never stopped him from defending me.

When I was 9-years-old, a boy named Axle tripped me as I walked from one class to another. When I fell, my books scattered and my glasses flew off my face. Axle acted like it was an accident saying, "Oh, pardon me, here, let me pick up your glasses." As he bent over to grab them, he took one more step and crushed them beneath his boot. He looked at me with a smile and said, "Oops."

Lane lost it and beat the kid within an inch of his life. Lane was big for his age, but was never a violent person, satisfied with turning the teasing from me to him and ignoring it until it subsided. I guess Lane had just seen enough. After Axle stopped moving and Lane continued to beat him, I had to intervene to stop it. There was no disciplinary action taken against Lane. He was only questioned privately for a few minutes. Axle returned to school after a week, still wearing casts and bandages.

I asked Lane why he beat up Axle so severely, why he didn't stop, even after Axle stopped moving. Lane said that he wasn't only trying to stop Axle; he was making an example of him to keep everyone from bothering me forever. I was a little concerned about his sanity. However, I realized he was simply a true friend. He would do whatever it would take to protect me, even at his own expense. It still frightened me for a while. I was afraid he would kill the next person that gave me a dirty look.

Nevertheless, after Axle's beating, neither Lane nor I were ever teased or bullied again. For a while, we were avoided completely by everyone. Even the other kids who were victims of Axle's bullying steered clear of us. After time, things started to revert to normal, minus the antagonizing. I remained a quiet introvert and our group of friends was always small. They were mostly Lane's friends. It didn't matter to me that I didn't have many friends. I had Lane.

As I grew up, my light brown hair became less curly, tamed to a subtle wave, and I let it grow long. At 12, I had a mandatory surgical procedure on my eyes so I wouldn't need the use of glasses to help my vision. Perfect eyesight is required for the meticulous assembly that we often have to do at Syntec. When I entered the workforce, I looked like a completely different person than I did in school. I started to care about my appearance and it gave me confidence. Such a change generally attracts attention, especially from boys, but Lane and I had a reputation. He says that he always saw how beautiful I was and that it didn't matter if I still had wild hair and glasses. I believe the part about the wild hair, but not the glasses. Those were ridiculous.

It wasn't until I turned 16 that my body started taking on the curves of a grown woman. It was then that I caught Monrad's eye. The reputation that kept me safe from school kids and fellow employees was not enough to keep me safe from a Peacekeeper and former Victor.

A few years ago, I asked my father why he thought Lane wasn't punished for what he did. He said that maybe the authorities thought Axle got what was coming to him. I told him Lane's reasoning for beating axle so severely and that Lane had given that same reason to the Authorities. He still didn't think what Lane did was right, but was glad that I had someone looking out for me.

_Oh my God. The authorities know that Lane would do whatever it would take to protect me. He told them himself. _

They knew that Lane would volunteer. They could have just picked Lane but they didn't want to make it too obvious that it was set up. They used the coincidence of my brother being chosen to distract from it and cover it up. It might have initially looked like a set up when my brother was chosen, but the people think the rule of volunteers thwarted the plan. It's all so obvious, it's like they want us to know, kick us while we are down.

Someone so willing to give up his own life for another Tribute that he volunteers makes for good television. The Game Makers were just waiting for the right time to arrange it. The murder of Monrad by my father was the perfect catalyst, but by Lane saying he volunteered on behalf of Kyle's age hides his true motive which the Game Maker's meant to reveal. He won't reveal it unless the Game Maker's motive is revealed; he won't expose our relationship and his commitment to protect me until the Game Maker's admit they set up this year's Tributes to punish us and as a better show for the Capitol viewers.

The tremors start again and I start to cough. Bile is burning my throat. Eunice glares at me for a few seconds with an expression of disgust on her face. I feel like hell and I'm sure I look it to. Eunice holds her hand over the microphone and says to me in a hushed voice, "My God, dear, couldn't you have cleaned yourself up? You know this is Televised." She realizes her mistake as soon as she says it. She knew that I was going to be selected as Tribute and she just betrayed her secret. It didn't matter I had already realized it. Eunice nervously clears her throat.

"It's now official. Let's have a hand for the Tributes of the 26th annual Hunger Games: Zara Green and Lane Steele."

Most of the crowd is too mortified to clap. Some are too defiant. The remaining clap only because they know someone has to or the Peacekeepers will make them. It really doesn't matter. Extremely enthusiastic clapping will be dubbed over this part of the television broadcast.

"Bow," whispers Eunice to both of us, "Bow, or you'll wish you had."

I bend over, but only to dry heave. I hadn't much in my stomach today and I'm already wearing it. Lane tries to comfort me, putting his hand on my back, but Eunice grabs his wrist.

"No, No. The Tributes mustn't touch each other before the Games. You know the rules."

The Mayor gives a quick closing statement before the Panem Anthem plays. I convulse on my hands and knees through the entire song.


	3. Chapter 3

Morphling

Chapter 3

It isn't until I'm sitting in the waiting room in the Justice building that it really hits me; I probably only have a few days left to live. Living in District 6 is a sad existence, but I'd rather be alive than dead. When Monrad took me, I contemplated suicide many times, but I held on to the hope that my captivity and torture would end someday. Although it can't be much more than a month old, the baby that's growing inside me gives me a stronger will to live than I've ever had.

Before I became Monrad's prisoner, I made peace with myself. It's a shame that someone could become accustomed to this way of life, considering the Capitol and the corrupt District 6 government controls every aspect of it, but I'd spent too many years exhausting myself with hopes of getting out. I surrendered to the life that I was given and cherished every moment I spent with Lane. Every second I was away from him I looked forward to the next time we would see each other. The anticipation made me happy and when I was with Lane, nothing else mattered.

We dreamed about what it would be like to live free, and what we would do with our time, time that was almost completely taken up by Syntec. We planned countless escape schemes. Although we never said it, we both knew that a dream is all it was. It could never be a reality. The distraction of hope is what mattered, even though it was false hope.

Now there is real hope, but it's only a small chance: 1 in 24. It might as well be 1 in a million. There is no chance that we both can make it out alive. There can be only one Victor. I couldn't enjoy the life of luxury that a Victor lives anyway with all the corruption going on right outside the front door. I wouldn't really be free. I'd still be trapped inside the wall surrounding District 6. Without Lane, it would be unbearable. There is no possible way that this can end well.

I want to run to Lane now, but I can't leave the waiting room. I'm locked in. The cage surrounding my life keeps getting smaller; first, the wall surrounding 6, then Syntec, then Monrad's house, now this room. I've never felt claustrophobic before. I wonder if this is what it's supposed to feel like.

Lane is waiting in another room exactly like this one. We have one hour for visitors to say their goodbyes then a transport will take us to a train station. From there, we'll be taken to the Capitol to prepare for the Games. I must have been sitting here for half an hour already. My mother and Kyle are the first to arrive.

A peacekeeper unlocks the door and my mother runs to me and hugs me before I can even stand up. She's sobbing so uncontrollably that I can barely understand what she says.

"I'm so sorry baby. I'm so sorry. We've been waiting outside this whole time, but the guards wouldn't let us in until now. I'm so sorry that you've been chosen. I'm so sorry."

I don't know how to respond. I'm just glad that we have the opportunity to see each other this one last time, so I say it.

"It's okay mother, at least I get to see you."

"Okay? This is not okay, Zara. I am so sorry."

"You won't have to worry about me with Monrad anymore."

She wipes her tears and sits on the padded bench next to me. She holds both of my hands in hers. Her warm grasp calms the trembling in my arms.

"No, I won't, but I don't know if worrying about you in the Games in much better."

I know she didn't mean it to, but it sounded like she was trying to make a joke. It's created an awkward moment, so I take one of my hands and put it around her shoulder. I kiss her cheek and say, "I love you."

She says the same and while we embrace, I see my little brother standing in the doorway like he just saw Medusa.

"Come here Kyle," I say.

He slowly walks forward and I stand up. Kyle's feet lift from the floor as I hug him.

"I'll miss you," I say, "You have to take care of mom now."

He isn't crying anymore, probably too terrified to produce tears.

"Don't go," Kyle says, "Don't go."

"I don't have a choice," I say, barely audible.

Kyle averts his eyes, "Tell Lane…tell him…thanks, for me."

I see in his shameful expression that he thinks the words are hardly enough. What words would be enough?

"I will."

I kiss the top of his fore head and all three of us hold hands. We just look at each other in disbelief for a while until I say, "I wish father could be here."

This brings tears back to Kyle but he controls himself. All three of us embrace. My mother kisses the tops of our heads until a peacekeeper tells her that her time is up.

"Goodbye, I love you" I say.

"Mother looks at me determinately and says, "Kyle will protect you."

I smile and try to say, "I know," but my voice cracks and I embrace her again.

The peacekeeper grabs mother and Kyle by the arms and takes them away.

When the door slams and locks I walk to the window. It's high and all I can see through it is the grey sky. My insides feel like they are all wrapped up tightly around a ball of lead.

Lane's father walks in next.

"Hello, Zara."

I turn and manage to get out the word, "hi."

I look back out the window.

Lane's father has always been nice to me. I don't mean to ignore him, but I'm going to have a break down.

He slowly approaches and stands by my side, looking out the window with me.

"You know, I always hoped you and Lane would end up together."

I nod.

"I don't mean in the Games… I mean..."

"I know."

"He loves you more than anything Zara. If he gives his life for you, I'll be content knowing that he died for an honorable reason."

I look at him and see the sincerity in his eyes. I lean towards him, put my face on his chest and sob. He puts his arms around me. After a few moments, he places his hands on my shoulders and gently pushes me away. He glances at the door for a second and then holds my hands. I can feel him slip something into my palm. It feels like a small coil of thin rope or cord of some sort.

He hugs me again and whispers in my ear, "They wouldn't let me see Lane."

"Time's up," the peacekeeper says.

Lane's father walks out.

He gave me whatever I hold in my hand so discretely that I'm afraid to look at it. Are there cameras in this room? This part of the Games is never televised, but am I being watched? I wouldn't doubt it. Probably too keep someone from giving me something that could give me an advantage in the Games. I'll be stripped and frisked countless times before I enter the arena anyway.

Tributes are allowed to take one small thing with them into the arena as a memento from their district. Usually a ring, patch or button that couldn't serve any other real purpose. Necklaces are not allowed because they can be used as a weapon. A few years ago, a Tribute did just that. She had a long rope necklace with a small metal star hanging from it. She joined an alliance with three boys. The first night she seduced them one at a time, took each one to a separate secluded area and strangled them to death. A woman's seduction is one weapon that they can't take away.

Small bracelets are sometimes worn by the Tributes. That is probably what it is. Why did he give it to me so secretly though? Maybe he doesn't want anyone to know that I got it from him.

I place it in the pocket of my robe without looking at it and keep my hands in as if the purpose was to warm them. I would have done it anyway. I'm freezing again.

Peacekeepers enter and lead me outside. The rain is subsiding. There are a few Capitol camera operators around, but they keep their distance. I get a quick glimpse of Lane being led out of the Justice building before I'm placed into the transport vehicle.

I'm alone in the backseat. There's an opaque window in front of me, blocking my view of the driver. I can see my reflection in the black glass. I look horrible. My hair hangs in my face in greasy strings. The edges of my lips are crusted. I look a lot thinner than I was before Monrad took me and I was thin then. In the reflection, my skin seems to sink deeper into my face. Dark bags begin to form under my eyes. My whole face begins to sag and turn a putrid yellow-green. The papery skin begins to crack and melt. My hair begins to look like wild brushstrokes, taking on the curly texture of my childhood, filling the rest of the glass canvas. When my face is reduced to a skull, I finally avert my eyes away from the hallucination.

I doubt if there are cameras in the transport and I don't see any harm in taking the memento out of my pocket now anyway. If asked, I will say that it was a gift from my brother.

It is a bracelet. It's braided with three thick strands of threads. Small beads, a little smaller than a pea, are woven into the braids. Some of the beads are close together, almost touching; others are a finger width apart. The pattern is quite random. It has a loop on one end and an oval bead on the other. It's a simple yet secure fastener. The oval bead barely fits through the loop and will not go back without the aid of fingers. I put it on my left wrist since I'm right handed.

I try to figure out what it means. I count the beads but the number means nothing to me. There are 12. When Lane's dad handed it to me, he said that he wasn't allowed to see Lane. I'm sure he wants Lane to see it. Maybe we can figure it out together if he doesn't know what it means immediately.

When we arrive at the train station, there are a lot more camera operators than there were at the Justice building. The rain has cleared completely and the sun is shining again. I'm directed towards the train at the same time as Lane. Our eyes meet, but we say nothing. We are told to stand at the door of the train and to wave at the cameras. Neither of us wave. We just stare at a rainbow arcing across the sky.

At first, it doesn't seem like a proper symbol to mark our last departure. A rainbow symbolizes the end of darkness and the beginning of light. We are headed towards the darkest time of our life. I let out a quick laugh that sounds a little maniacal. Lane looks at me questioningly for a second; surely thinking it's odd that I find humor in this situation. A rainbow also marks the time when something has been washed clean, made anew. The first thing that's going to happen to us when we arrive at the capitol is a thorough cleansing and a full body makeover so we are "presentable" for television. Nevertheless, it is nice to see something beautiful before we leave district 6 for what could very well be our last time.

I assembled thousands of transport parts while in school; small pieces that would become part of a larger assembly where my dad worked. Many of those parts were for trains, but I have never actually been on one until now.

I didn't realize how spacious they are on the inside. Everything is so crammed together in District 6 that I expected the train to be similar. Eunice takes me to a chamber that is bigger than our entire apartment where I lived until I had to move to the Syntec housing unit. Our apartment had three rooms: A bathroom that had a small shower, a sink and a toilet; and a kitchen that had one small refrigerator, a sink and a small counter top. We cooked all of our food on one portable electric hot plate. The third and biggest room had just enough space for three beds and a television. My brother and I slept in a bunk bed. I always slept on the top bunk; my brother was scared of falling off. My parents shared one bed that wasn't much larger than one of the bunks. We all sat on the edge of my parent's bed to watch the television programs that were required by law to watch, like the Hunger Games. That is where we ate also, but we never watched TV unless it was mandatory.

My chamber in the train has three rooms, but the bathroom is bigger than all three rooms of my family's apartment combined. It has a gigantic washing tub sitting in the center with multiple spigots. There are bottles filled with pink, light blue and dark green liquid in a large basket sitting on the tub's widest edge.

Eunice told me to be ready for supper in one hour. She said there are clothes in the dresser and closet in the main room and that I can choose from any of it to wear. The word "dresser" struck me as interesting. At first, I thought she meant some type of automatic machine that would put my clothes on for me. I realized after a little inspection that she was referring to an ornately carved cabinet made of rich wood that held drawers full of clothes. At home, I keep my clothes in one small stack on a shelf.

I feel filthy and don't want to touch the new clothes until I'm clean. The bottles on the tub are labeled: shampoo, conditioner and body wash. At home, we have one bar of soap to use in the shower and one for the kitchen. I've learned enough in my life, at least, to know what those three words mean.

Even though my robe has vomit on it, I fold it up neatly and place it on top of my plain leather shoes. It's all that I have that is mine now. I don't even know what happened to the blanket I had wrapped around me at the Reaping. I must have dropped it on the way to the stage after my name was called. I hadn't thought about it until now. The shock made me forget I guess. I wish I still had it. The blanket was my mother's.

I turn on the water and am surprised when it instantly lets off steam. The water in our apartment doesn't get any hotter than lukewarm. Steam only came from water in the kitchen. I'm also surprised that the facilities in Monrad's house weren't like this. He was supposed to be living in luxury. Maybe he had these fancy liquid soaps and the ability to run hot water, but just didn't want me to have it. I was locked in his bedroom the entire time so I didn't see much of what was in the rest of his house in the Victor's village. The bedroom that he kept me in had a bathroom in it that I could use anytime, but it didn't have hot water like this. The tremors in my limbs start again. I try to push that part of my life out of my mind. I don't want to think about it anymore, I don't have to think about it anymore, I shouldn't think about it anymore. If I let the pain of it distract me in the Games, it could cost my life.

Sitting in the hot water feels amazing. I can't describe it; I've never felt it before. I sit still, rolling the beading bracelet around my wrist, immersed up to my neck; my hair cleansed and lathered in conditioner. I rest my hand on the lower part of my stomach and dream about the life that is forming inside. I wonder if it's a boy or a girl. I don't care how it happened. It's part of me now and I want it to be for the rest of my life.

I finally get out when I start to doze off. I don't want to be sleeping in the tub when Eunice comes back to collect me. I don't know if I'd be punished, but I don't want to find out. That woman frightens me.

I dry myself with the softest towel I have ever felt and use it to wring out my hair. I wrap it around my torso. I find an enormous brush sitting next to the sink. The bristled end is bigger than my hand with my fingers spread apart. I can't believe how easily it glides through my hair. I generally have to pick the snarls out with my fingers for 10 minutes before I can even begin to use a small comb on it.

I find an assortment of headbands, clips and hair ties in a drawer beneath the sink. I pull my hair straight back and put it up in a high ponytail. It's never looked so sleek and smooth. There is also a drawer full of what I think is called makeup; paints for the face. I'm strangely enticed to try some, but I don't have the slightest idea how to begin and I don't want to look like one of those clowns from the capitol anyway. I've never seen a real clown, but that's what my dad calls the citizens of the capitol. Apparently, a clown wears a lot of makeup.

The closet is full of dresses made of material I've never seen before. Some are so shiny and stiff I can't imagine they would be comfortable. Some, I think, are made of plastic. I find a plain pair of brown pants and a long sleeved light blue shirt in the dresser. They look and feel like cotton and are soft against my skin. They are similar to the material of my clothes at home but are much less threadbare.

Eunice barges in just as I finish dressing.

"My, my. Don't we look clean? See what a little soap and water can do once-in-a-while?

I smile and nod,

"You do know those clothes are for sleeping."

"Uh…"

"Oh, it's no matter. You'll be made fashionable enough once we reach the Capitol. If the cameras see you before then, it will simply add to the contrast and greaten the impression you make for the opening ceremonies. Come now, supper is ready, you must get some meat on those bones."

One entire train car is an elaborate dining hall. The decorations are blinding. A long wooden table, as ornately carved as the dresser, stretches almost the entire length of the car. Lane is seated in the middle of the left side of the table. There is one empty chair across from him.

"Remember, the Tributes must keep their hands to themselves. No attacking your competition before the Games," Eunice says with a smile and looks at one of the four Peacekeepers standing in the corners.

She tried to make it sounds like a joke, implying that we would love to get our hands on each other in an affectionate way. She forgets that we are not playing their game. Well, at least not the whole game. We have a plan of our own even though we haven't spoken of it. Lane and I know each other well enough to know what the other is thinking. The Capitol is not going to use our relationship for entertainment.

"When you're finished, I'll come back to collect you for the recap of all the Reapings. I can't wait to see it myself, Enjoy," she says. She gives a little wave with her fingers before she leaves. I roll my eyes and walk toward the empty chair.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Do you always wear your pajamas to supper?"

It's nice to know that Lane still has a sense of humor.

"Would you rather see me in a dress made from a rain tarp?"

Lane scoffs and shovels another forkful of food into his mouth. He scoops meaty stew out of a serving bowl and slops it on his plate.

The table is laden with more food than I've ever seen together in one place. It's enough to fill the stomachs of a dozen grown men. The plates and utensils are exquisitely crafted. We rarely have the chance to eat a meal together and I'm a little hurt that he didn't wait for me. The way he is wolfing down the food isn't quite like him.

I take a roll from a basket covered with a fine piece of linen and place it on my plate next to a few thinly sliced pieces of chicken breast and a scoopful of mixed vegetables. The aroma is intoxicating. I hesitate to take the first bite; my stomach is queasy from nervousness and morphling withdrawal.

Lane continues to stuff his mouth with as much food as he can chew at once. It makes me a little uncomfortable. I thought he would be happy to talk to me. I don't really know what to say so I try to make conversation about recent events.

"You wouldn't believe the ridiculous dresses that I found in the closet, were there any in yours?"

Lane looks at me for a second then takes a drink from an ornate goblet, much of the dark red liquid spills out the sides of his mouth.

"No, just men's clothes," he says, and then continues to gorge himself.

"There was even a drawer full of makeup. Do they really expect us to care about something like that?

"Maybe you should have tried some. You could use it."

I'm taken aback and genuinely hurt. What's gotten into him? He never treats me this way. Maybe he regrets volunteering.

I just stare at him with my mouth open. I'm completely at a loss for words.

His eyes meet mine. He winks, then returns to gorging.

I'm a little irritated that he led me to believe he was serious, but I should have realized it myself; he's acting. I must be correct guessing that Lane doesn't want the Capitol to use our relationship for extra drama during the games. Two can play at this game.

"Do you always eat like a pig? Have a little self respect."

"If you didn't notice, this might be one of our last meals," Lane says.

"Doesn't mean you can't show a little courtesy, you're making me nauseous.

"Sure that's not because you're a morphling?"

Okay, now he's taking it a little too far.

"You know this isn't televised, we don't have to…"

"What are you talking about? Don't have to what?" Lane says.

"Act like this," I say

"Who's acting?

I take a small bite out of the roll. Maybe he's just being careful in case we're being watched right now.

"The horse wants an egg, but the chicken says neigh," I say.

In our barnyard speech that means, "I have something that I want to show you, but I can't right now because someone might be watching us." The translation doesn't exactly make sense, but that's the point. Sometimes barnyard metaphors like, "fox in the hen house," or "wolf in sheep's clothing" are a little too obvious to use as code phrases.

Rather than respond with another code phrase, which would make it obvious that we were trying to hide the meaning, Lane acts like I'm crazy.

"Are you nuts? That morphling's really gotten to you, hasn't it?" He laughs.

Now he's just being an ass. He's never been like this.

I take another bite off the roll and rest my elbows on the table. With my left hand, I'm still holding the roll; with my right hand, I spin the bracelet around my wrist, hoping that he'll notice the cue. I keep my eyes fixated on the light fixture hanging above us as if I'm transfixed by it. It's one of the most beautifully crafted things I've ever seen. Lights arranges in a ring shine through hundreds of bits of carved glass that glitter like diamonds. The entire fixture sparkles like it's made out of twinkling stars.

"Chandelier," Lane says.

"What?"

"That's what it's called. That ridiculous thing you're staring at."

"Oh, I think it's beautiful," I say.

Does he even notice the bracelet? He's too good at this.

"Do you know that thing is worth more than what you or your entire family have ever made or will ever make? It could feed all the kids in district 6 for a month, probably more."

"It's still beautiful."

"I can't believe you. Everything here is a disgrace. Look at these plates, these spoons and forks, this cup. It all makes me sick how the Capitol people live while we rot in a prison with nothing, and you think it's beautiful. Are all morphing's so blind?"

Okay, I've had enough of this game. I take my plate and walk towards my room. The peacekeepers standing on each side of the door don't try to stop me. They're just here to make sure we didn't try to kill each other before the Games. I hear Lane continue to gorge himself as I walk away.

It hurts to have Lane talk to me that way; a lot more that I imagined it would. I honestly don't know if he's acting or not. He didn't have to be so rude. He could have just ignored me. Maybe he really does regret volunteering. I thought I knew Lane and was reassured when he volunteered, but the months we spent apart have worn away the bond we had. I was losing hope that Lane would still care for me after I escaped from Monrad. I can't expect him to feel the same. Although, something must still be there, or he wouldn't have volunteered. Maybe Lane just realized he made the biggest mistake of his life.

I sit on my bed, try not to tremble, and pick at the rest of my food until Eunice arrives to bring me to the recap of the Reapings. Before I leave, I put on a different plain green shirt, without buttons this time, which Eunice assures, "is not pajamas, but might as well be."

I'm taken to a dark room that has a flat television on the wall. The screen must be about 6 feet wide. There's a plush red couch facing it. Eunice sits in the middle of the couch and pats the cushions on each side of her.

"Come, sit, I won't bite," she says.

I don't even look at Lane. I just play the game the way I wish he would play it now; I ignore him completely.

"Did you two have a nice supper? The food was splendid, wasn't it? Tell me, did you enjoy the Cornish hens? They were Superb."

Neither of us replies.

Apparently, the questions were rhetorical because Eunice just keeps on talking.

"I can't wait to see the Tributes from District 8 this year. I hear their costumes for the opening ceremonies are sure to be a trendsetter. I hope they pick Tributes who are worthy to wear them. Some of the boys and girls they choose are so homely. There should be a rule."

I can't believe what I'm hearing and try to ignore it. Lane can't.

"You've got to be kidding, woman."

"Pardon me? Did you just refer to me as "woman?" Eunice says, "You would be wise to watch your mouth young man. You will refer to me as Ms. Adamant."

"Whatever you say, Ms. Adamant," Lane says with extra emphasis. His demeanor is completely out of character. I've never seen him disrespect an Elder, even if she is from the Capitol, which doesn't deserve much respect.

Eunice's face turns red again and she looks ready to slap Lane just as the TV turns on. The theme music for the Reaping program blares through the speakers.

"Oh, goody. I'm so excited, aren't you?" says Eunice.

"Thrilled," Lane says sarcastically.

She doesn't react this time, not wanting to miss one second of the program.

The first Reapings, for District 1 and 2, go as expected. Both tributes from each District are volunteers. They all have strong athletic builds, the boy from 1 is particularly muscular and they're overly eager to start the Games. I don't stand a chance against any of them.

Although it is technically considered against the rules, some Districts train their Tributes to volunteer for Games. These children, who start their training as soon as they can walk, are called Careers, because that is all they do. Their life is completely committed to the art of killing. Consequently, many of the Victors of past hunger games are from one of these districts. The citizens of District 1 and 2 have a better quality of life than most others, so the Careers have plenty of food to eat. Both districts are favored over others by the Capitol because of their professions; mainly luxury items for District 1. District 2 holds the Peacekeeper headquarters.

District 3's main industry is electronics and machinery. The citizens live a better life than we do in 6, but not by much. They have similar rules that control their freedom. The Tributes are both 15-years-old, both terrified.

I try to ignore the next two Reapings. I close my eyes and try to think of anything other than the Reapings, but I can still hear the terrified screams when a 12-year-old girl from 5 is chosen. I can't bring myself to see what she looks like. It would make it too real.

The recap of District 6 is very uneventful despite the rare circumstance. The cheering is obviously dubbed over the stale audience. I stand on the stage shivering and coughing. I can barely hear myself state my name. The commentators make it seem that Lane's decision to volunteer is no different than the Careers. They never tell the truth about Careers and their training or even call them Careers. They call them patriots who show their bravery and devotion to their district. Even Lane's defiant answer goes by almost unnoticed. The camera doesn't show me convulsing on my hands and knees during the Panem Anthem. It's only played once at the end of the recap anyway. The only impression I gave on screen was that I was weak and scared: an easy target.

I'm not sure what the Careers will think of Lane. They are probably sizing him up right now, wondering whether he's a threat to be eliminated quickly, or a possible asset to be assimilated into the alliance that the Careers usually make before the Games start. That is technically against the rules also, but it's not uncommon. I don't think there has ever been a Hunger Games where there wasn't a prearranged alliance. Of course, alliances form after the game starts, but that is expected.

Prearranged alliances provoke the anger of some of the districts' citizens; they believe it's unfair. So the Capitol says it's against the rules, but they don't enforce it, because alliances make the games more entertaining for the clowns in the capitol.

I manage to ignore District 7, but Eunice is so ecstatic when the District 8 tributes are chosen that I have to watch. They are both 17-years-old and are both strikingly good looking. Although they remain calm, neither of them looks as happy to be on stage as Eunice is to see them.

District 8 is responsible for making all types of fabric, most of which are used to make the ridiculous clothing for the Capitol. They usually have an extremely positive reception during the open ceremonies. The Capitol citizens are obsessed with fashion. The great anticipation of their costumes for the opening ceremonies is the same every year. It always causes a trend in the Capitol.

10 and 11 go by without incident, but the Reaping from 12 causes a big scene. A 12-year-old girl is chosen first, then a 14-year-old boy. The parents of both of them run, screaming and crying towards the stage, and beg and plead for mercy. The father of the girl is so hysterical that two Peacekeepers surround him and start to drag him away. He wrestles a shotgun from one of the Peacekeepers and knocks him out with the stock. He shoots the other Peacekeeper in the stomach. It must have been loaded with a stun cartridge. There is no blood, but the Peacekeeper doubles over and howls in pain. He takes aim at another Peacekeeper, but before he can pull the trigger, he's incapacitated by another Peacekeeper who jabs him in the back with an electric shock rod.

The little girl, Jozie, runs screaming to her father. As soon as she reaches him, she's dragged back to the stage while her father is taken away.

One of the Districts closing speeches is next and then the Panem Anthem. I'm not really paying attention. Seeing Jozie's father taken away started me thinking of mine again.

"What a show, they keep getting better every year. I'll have to congratulate the editors," Eunice says.

The TV turns off and Eunice stands up. She motions to the Peacekeepers and says, "Will you give us some privacy for a few minutes? I'd love to talk to this young man and woman alone." The Peacekeepers obey and leave.

"Did you notice anything different about this years recap?" Eunice says.

I didn't, they all seem the same to me.

"No mentors," Lane says.

He's right. I didn't realize it until now.

"Right you are, young man. All of the Tributes have their mentors this year but yours. It was decided at the last minute, during editing, to not include any shots of the mentors or include any of their introductions."

"Why?" I ask.

"It would give you an unfair disadvantage if the other tributes knew that you did not have a mentor. However, it will not be kept secret for long. The other Tributes and mentors are bound to find out before the Games begin. They will know that you have not received proper training and you will become a target."

"Why are you telling us this? What do you care?" says Lane.

"I care because it brings up a point that could be advantageous to both of us."

"I'm listening," Lane says.

"Let's stop playing charades and be blunt with each other. You need to attract the attention of sponsors. Without the aid of a mentor, that will be difficult. The Capitol knows about your affectionate relationship and wants to use it for drama in the Games, especially the opening ceremonies and interviews. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Is she trying to get us to admit our relationship? Does she really know? We don't answer.

As if she knows what we are thinking because of our hesitation, she says, "I am not trying to trick you. I am trying to help you, because it will help the Capitol."

"That's reassuring," Lane says.

"The Capitol has had its eye on you ever since that incident when you were both 9-years-old. Do you remember?"

"Of course we do," My eyes meet Lanes for the first time since we walked in this room.

"The capitol sees potential for you as entertaining contestants in the games. Was this year's drawing rigged? Of course it was. You were never before punished for your affection, because you've never been seen sharing physical affection; even if you were, it might have been allowed. Lane's absolute devotion to you and your connection is what mattered. That type of affinity will make the audience in the capitol wild. We need you to survive for as long as you can. It would be the best if it came down to you two at the end. We cannot force the sponsors to give you gifts. You may choose to hide your relationship if we give them freely. However, we can urge the sponsors to reward your affection. Do you see?

She's right. She's right about everything, even our physical affection. The Capitol hasn't caught us giving each other anything more than a quick hug, because we have never done more than that. We've never kissed. It's been… difficult. That's an understatement but our fear of being separated by punishment kept us abiding by the rule. We both believe it actually made our relationship stronger. Without the connection of a physical bond, we created an extraordinarily strong emotional bond to fill the space. It helped create the selflessness that caused Lane to volunteer.

Love no physical joy to fear no physical harm.

We live by that motto. It applies to our celibacy: if we don't give in to our physical desires then we won't have to be frightened of physical punishment. Now it applies to Lane volunteering: Lane loves me so whole-heartedly, so purely, so free of physical love, that he does not fear physical death. He will lay down his life for mine; A true friend. It is only then that physical love can have true meaning, not distracted by lust. We may never have the chance to experience it.

"I'll leave you two alone for a while," Eunice says, "please think hard on what I have told you. One of your lives may very well depend on it."

Just before she closes the door behind her, she says, "You can talk freely. No one is listening. I'll be back soon."

Eunice leaves the room but Lane and I sit still on opposite ends of the couch. I assume Lane is wondering if we can trust what Eunice said about no one listening.

Lane doesn't say anything and it reassures my assumption, but I have to talk to him.

"She has a point you know," I say.

"About what?"

I can't stand it anymore. I can't act like I don't Love him.

"We don't have a mentor. We need sponsors," I say.

He obviously doesn't want to talk about it.

"Lane, why would she tell us if she wasn't telling the truth? Who would it benefit?"

"No one, but I don't want to be used."

Finally, I get a straight answer out of him.

"I know, but it may be our only chance," I say.

"You mean _you're_ only chance."

"What?"

"At least one of us has to die," Lane says.

"Do you regret volunteering?"

"No."

"Then why are you acting like this?"

He stares at the blank television screen.

"Lane, please talk to me."

"Just… please, I need time to think," he says.

I know we need a plan of some sort, and it's good if Lane is trying to work something out, but more than anything, I need my friend. I don't care what we talk about; I just want to talk. I wish he knew that. I can't just tell him that though. He's already volunteered his life for my sake, what more could I ask of him?

I take the bracelet off my wrist and hand it to him.

He hesitates, but takes it.

"It was a gift," I say. I don't want to say it's from his dad. I hope he realizes, but if someone is listening, I don't want anyone to know. His father might be punished.

"It's nice," he says and hands it back.

"Kyle told me to tell you thanks," I say.

"I didn't do it for him."

"Right, you did it as a gesture to all 12-year-olds who you think are too young to be Tributes."

Lane stands up and starts to walk towards the door. I didn't mean to make him mad; I was just playing the game.

I go after him and grab his arm. When he turns around his expression frightens me. I've never seen him like this. His looks so angry that I'm afraid he's going to hit me even though he's never been even a little angry with me before. I let go of his arm and reflexively turn away. It's an impulse learned from all the times I was beaten by Monrad.

The look on his face turns to shame and sympathy.

He turns again and as he's about to open the door, Eunice comes in.

"I hope you've had enough time to come to the right decision," she says.

Lane bumps into her as he exits the room and Eunice has to grab the door to keep her balance. She looks horrified, but doesn't say anything. Through the doorway, I see a Peacekeeper grab his arm and haul him to his room a little more roughly than usual.

Eunice straightens out her diamond studded blouse and says, "My, my. Lane sure is in a hurry to get some sleep. Come now, you need your rest also. We'll be at the Capitol before noon tomorrow.

Eunice guides me to my room and I stay awake most of the night with my hands on my stomach thinking of the child growing inside. I purposely don't think about the Games, it's too horrifying and I don't know what to think of the way Lane is acting. I don't care if the Capitol wants to use our love for drama anymore. We've never been able to express our love physically, but we have always been able to emotionally. This may be our last chance to express our love for each other and Lane seems determined to hide it more than we've ever had to.

I probably get only an hour or two of sleep before Eunice comes into the room.

"Rise and shine!" she says.

I'm already awake, but haven't moved from the position I was in when I got into bed last night. I'm half propped up on three pillows against the headboard of the bed.

"I hope you're hungry," Eunice says cheerily.

When I get to the dining car, Lane is already gorging himself again on copious amounts of ham, eggs and pancakes. He uses so much syrup that Eunice goes twice to wherever the food is kept to fetch more. The last time, she returns with a gallon of the dark brown syrup and a scowl.

I wasn't going to say anything else to Lane. I was going to wait for him to make the next move. Every time I had said something, it provoked an answer that made me wish I hadn't said anything.

Half way through my small plate of fresh fruit, which is all that my stomach can handle, I can't stay silent anymore.

"You're father visited me at the Justice building."

No answer. Good. I was afraid he would be angry for me bringing that up, but I guess it's no secret.

"He said that he wasn't allowed to see you. Do you know why?"

"Don't know."

Eunice says, "Splendid, I didn't think you were ever going to speak again. Now if we could just get you to say more than two words in an hour."

We didn't speak again, until after we reached the Capitol. I decided to let him have his space and work out whatever was going on in his head. No matter how much I was reassured by our past I couldn't help but think he was regretting his decision to volunteer.

During the last part of our train ride, I started to notice that my withdrawal symptoms were subsiding. My hands weren't shaking anymore and I hadn't hallucinated since I was in the transport on the way to the train station. I wondered if I was finally getting over it until I saw the Capitol on the horizon. Amid the bleak landscape, stood more tall buildings than I could count, each one a different bright color. The closer we approached, the more vivid the colors became. The pinks and blues were the first that I noticed started taking on an unnatural quality. They stood out from the rest and seemed to be transparent. Then other buildings would appear out of nowhere, like they were just painted on the sky. The textures ranged from fluid to chalky and soon all the buildings were changing colors, switching places, disappearing and reappearing until I didn't know which ones were real and which ones were my imagination.

Once we got close enough to see the crowd that was anxiously awaiting the Tribute train I had to sit down, away from the windows. The buildings looked like they were all collapsing in on me. All the faces of the people looked the same; they all looked like Monrad. I trembled and whimpered with my legs pulled up to my chest and my face buried between my knees. Lane stood motionless and silent as he looked out the window.


End file.
